


You Become the Nightmare

by demigodscum



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Interspecies Sex, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demigodscum/pseuds/demigodscum
Summary: You are fourteen and assigned as Padawan to the Chosen One.You are fourteen and de jure Commander of the 501st Legion of the Grand Army of the Republic.You are fourteen when Anakin Skywalker smiles at you for the first time, and it's a small thing, barely a smile at all, but you hope to the Force it will not be the last.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Ahsoka Tano
Comments: 33
Kudos: 108





	You Become the Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyDae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDae/gifts).



> Nothing here is mine, yada yada.
> 
> Vague-ish to not-so-vague spoilers for... lots of things all throughout TCW and RotS, both of which are mostly necessary for following along with this story.
> 
> For [LadyDae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDae/pseuds/LadyDae), who won a silly little spelling game from another story of mine. LD, you told me to experiment, so experiment I did. Hopefully, I didn't _completely_ ruin my own writing for you, and hopefully, there is at least one thing in here for you to enjoy.
> 
> This story made me realize how much I despise the useless SW timeline. So fucking confusing.
> 
> All the gracias and brownies in the world to Ariel, for invaluable comments, seemingly inexhaustible patience, anatomy conversations, and coming up with the aforementioned game.

You are fourteen and assigned as Padawan to the Chosen One. 

A mistake, he says, and your insides twist in shame, but you hide it behind stubbornness and bad comebacks and keep your shoulders pulled back at all times. It makes you look taller, which makes you look older, and older means not youngling.

You are fourteen and de jure Commander of the 501st Legion of the Grand Army of the Republic. 

Next in command is Captain Rex, who laughs at the idea of your Master having a Padawan, as if you were a child he will have to babysit. Captain Rex does everything he can to remind you of your youth and inexperience without crossing the line of due respect for a superior, and you mostly stay quiet and don't remind him that, technically, you're older than him.

In the end, the relief mission on Christophsis is a moderate success despite all the mistakes you make, but nobody dies under your orders, so you count it as a personal win.

You are fourteen when Anakin Skywalker smiles at you for the first time, and it's a small thing, barely a smile at all, but you hope to the Force it will not be the last.  


* * *

  
It doesn't take long for you to meet Senator Amidala, who insists you call her Padmé. You do, but only after your Master has nodded his approval. 

Padmé is beautiful in a way you don't really understand. It's not effortless, because her hairstyles look like they must take hours to prepare and her dresses are so intricate they make you dizzy, but it's also not _forced_. It's entirely different from some of the figures spray-painted on the LAATs or those on the few posters you've seen in the barracks of longer-term outposts. 

Bothering your Master with such trivial questions seems preposterous, and asking about a Senator seems insensible, so instead, you ask Rex why the boys like the people on the LAATs and the posters.

Rex blushes and stumbles over words that make no sense whatsoever before, finally, he tells you to ask your Master.

But your Master laughs and tells you not to worry about it, which is no help at all.  


* * *

  
Naboo is a beautiful planet, and you wish you hadn't almost just died, so you could appreciate it more. As it is, the "almost" part is relieving enough that you stroll down a hallway in the royal palace without paying much attention to where you're going.

Until you turn a corner and see your Master and Padmé, arms around each other and faces pushed close together —

They're touching lips — _kissing_ , like you've seen some of the boys do on rare occasions. You've seen it a few times on Coruscant as well, but you've spent more time in hyperspace the past close-to-a-year than you'd ever spent time outside the Temple before.

They pull back a little with a move of their chins, and then with another move they press together again, and Padmé's hands are in your Master's hair and —

And then they break apart, and Padmé says, "I missed you. I'll _miss_ you again."

Your Master's response is too low for you to hear, but it makes Padmé smile and kiss him again. It occurs to you that they might want privacy to say goodbye, being such evidently close friends and going so long without seeing each other, so you step back carefully and return the way you came.  


* * *

  
On your first mission to Geonosis, you meet Barriss Offee, who bends down before you in a deep bow. When you glance at your Master, he's staring at Barriss with both eyebrows raised incredulously, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough for you to tell. You shrug it off and extend a hand to Barriss to help her up, and by the time the mission is over and you've almost just died (again), the whole thing slips from your mind.  


* * *

  
Your Master is leaving with Master Obi-Wan for a mission on Mandalore that you are not invited to. It isn't the first time you're left behind and it surely won't be the last, but it still rubs you the wrong way that it happens at all.

In your quarters at the Temple, your Master is going on and on about the training drills you should practice while he's gone, and you can't help but notice that his hair truly looks very soft, and it's been a year since you became his Padawan, and you still don't know how it feels.

But you can find out, you decide, and so you reach up.

"Remember though, your left —"

It _is_ soft, and _weird_ , too, because you can feel individual hairs rolling against each other when you rub them between the pads of your fingers. Running your fingers _through_ his fringe tickles a little, more in the way that makes you shiver than in the way that makes you laugh, and you think the dark aurum strands look pretty against your orange skin. 

Padmé did this a different way though, so you decide to try that too, since you've already gone this far. 

You slide your hand back to curl it around the curve of his skull, feeling the grain of the hair and the soft scalp beneath it —

And then it seems so, so easy to push up on your toes —

"Wh—"

And press your lips to his.

His breath leaves in a warm rush that tingles the skin below your nose and his eyes are so very wide and _blue_ , blue like his lightsaber, and you're not breathing because you're waiting for him to do the thing with his chin where he tilts it back —

But he's gone, pressed against the wall beside the door —

"What the _hell_ was that?"

You stumble through an explanation, first petulantly as you protest his own inaction, then confused as you tell him about having seen him with Padmé. His expression turns all the more horrified, and shame burns hot in the pit of your stomach. 

You must not have seen well. There must be some other step to this whole thing that you missed that time on Naboo.

"I just. I just wanted to tell you I'll miss you, Skyguy," you try, but it makes him frown with an uncharacteristic sigh.

He says kissing is not for just anyone, _definitely_ not the two of you, and then Master Obi-Wan is at the door, admonishing your Master for making them late. Your Master turns towards you a last time, says you'll talk more when he's back, and then they leave.

You realize you are (almost) fifteen and (possibly) just confessed to un-Jedi-like emotions, so instead of practicing drills, you meditate.  


* * *

  
Your Master doesn't bring the subject up again, so you decide to take matters into your own hands.

You are (officially) fifteen now, and you are a Commander, and you can figure this out.

Rex is a CT who got promoted during training for his show of exceptional skills: designation CT, rank Captain. Rex went through ARC training and somehow earned himself Jaig Eyes in the first two months of the war. Rex is your Master's right hand, was his second-in-command until you arrived. Rex takes care of his men, on and off the battlefield. Rex calls you verd'ika and sometimes vod'ika, and he _never_ addresses you as miss, and he _always_ trades you his meat-flavor ration bars.

Rex isn't just anyone.

You find him in his cramped quarters aboard the _Resolute_ , pouring over requisitions and mission reports. It's like they reproduce on their own, he complains; he can never catch up, let alone get ahead. 

You are a Commander, but you are also a Padawan, and you are only ever asked to attach your reports to your Master's. No requisitions for you, even though it's Commander Cody who deals with them in the 212th. You know better than to apologize though. Apologizing for things like this makes Rex mildly angry, and you're still not sure why, but angry is the last thing you want to make him when he looks ready to keel over from exhaustion. 

He doesn't look up from his datapad when you move to perch on the edge of his small desk, but he does when you reach over and rub his fuzzy head. Unlike your Master though, Rex closes his eyes and leans into the touch, muttering about needing to shave soon.

It's the perfect moment, so you lean down and a bit sideways, until your lips are brushing against his just barely —

And he's gone before you can do anything more than that.  


* * *

  
"You kissed Rex."

Yes, you answer, and then, frowning, ask him how he knows, because it's been a few hours only and _you_ weren't planning on saying _anything_ —

But Rex, your Master explains, confessed right after the incident.

Rex, your Master explains, was ready to abdicate his rank and get shipped off to Kamino for decommissioning, because clones are strictly forbidden from fraternizing with Jedi.

That doesn't make sense to you. As far as you're concerned, you've _been_ fraternizing with the clones from the moment you became the 501st's Commander —

And then your Master is groaning in apparent frustration, yanking at his hair with one hand and fisting the other around empty air, muttering under his breath in Huttese. It is becoming increasingly evident to you that you have made a terrible mistake yet _again_ , that, given the severity of both your Master's and Rex's reactions, perhaps you don't yet comprehend the _magnitude_ of your mistake. 

There is something you don't know, and the shape of it gets stuck halfway down your throat like a shard of bone.

You want to apologize, but the words won't come out, so instead, you listen to your Master berate himself for not having thought of this before, obviously Obi-Wan had never had to explain, not with the kind of childhood your Master had had. It doesn't seem right to you that he tries to blame himself; after all, _you_ are one who initiated both kisses (only to be turned away (twice)).

Your Master sighs, glancing at you with a rueful sort of look, and says, "I guess a part of me is glad you're so oblivious."

You have to swallow hard against the sharp tightness in your throat to keep from making some undignified noise, because that _hurts_ , the same way it hurt when he called you reckless the day you met on Christophsis. 

You are fifteen and keenly aware of being a Padawan, neither a Knight nor a Master, and you had never felt as painfully young as you do now.

Your Master stalks over to grab the datapad lying on the small desk opposite your bunk. He taps at it for a silent minute, brooding so intensely it makes you curl in on yourself, and then he hands it to you.

"I put my access code in. Use the holonet. Just — search for more information on kissing, and... see where that leads you."  


* * *

  
According to the holonet, mouth-to-mouth kissing is considered "romantic" and/or "sexual" in most of the cultures that practice it. This kind of kissing is prominent amongst humans, Twi'leks, Mirialans, Pantorans, Togrutas, and a number of other species. However, for many sub-cultures of Twi'leks, for example, this kissing is extended also to close family and friends, whereas the intertwining of lekku is regarded as a much more intimate expression of romantic and/or "sexual" sentiment. Similarly, Mandalorian warriors are known to press their helmets to one another when in armor if they wish to convey such a sentiment.

According to the holonet, "sexual" refers to "sex."

According to the holonet, "fraternization" can also refer to sex.

According to the holonet, sex is an overwhelmingly vast number of things, contingent on species, culture, genitals, pairing, orientation, identity, legality, and taste. Moreover, sex is not solely for the purpose of reproduction; many species that have sex do not reproduce that way, and most people have sex for pleasure.

According to the holonet, Jedi don't have sex, nor do they kiss other people. The sources on this are subpar at best because the Jedi Order has continually refused to publicly comment on its Code or practices —

But you could have figured that much out on your own.

A part of you whispers you could have figured it _all_ out on your own, _before_ you embarrassed yourself, but the rest of you tries to argue there is no way you could have known.

When it's time to deploy, you turn off the datapad and tiredly make your way to the main hangar, where your Master is waiting for you with a medical patch of some kind that he sticks to your arm.

You avoid his eyes, avoid Rex's eyes, and by the time you're flying down, the catecholamines have kicked in and nothing matters but the weight of your lightsaber in your hand.  


* * *

  
You are fifteen and forced to admit to your next-in-command that, three days ago, you had no idea what kissing meant for humans.

Rex cocks his head at you, eyebrows raised expectantly, and you are forced to admit that, three days ago, you had no idea what kissing meant, period.

You further confess to feeling like a total idiot, and Rex melts into the soft, pliant person he is during quiet moments off the field. He smiles tenderly, nods with a shrug and calls you vod'ika, and then he says the purview of the Jedi is not your fault.  


* * *

  
You are fifteen and full of questions, but you have realized that, sometimes, asking can be more trouble than it's worth.  


* * *

  
The mission to Alderaan is distressing on more levels than you care to admit to aloud. For starters, you disobey direct orders from your Master, and that never sits well with you, no matter how (relatively) easy it is for you to disobey the Council. Then there is the fact that you nearly fail at your mission, that Padmé almost _dies_ under your dubious protection. 

And then there is the realization that Padmé is still bewilderingly beautiful, but now the sight of her makes you think of kissing.

And kissing makes you think of sex.

And then you're thinking of kissing her sex, and that's when you realize you don't _know_ what her genitals look like. Your research didn't get you there, but maybe it should have; it seems like a personal offense that you are unable to picture it.

And _then_ —

Then, you are made to consider the possibility that you are breaking the vow you made to the Order. If Jedi are not meant to kiss or have sex, then surely, they are not meant to think about such things.

(Jedi are not meant to be soldiers, either, but that is neither here nor there.)  


* * *

  
The next time you are on Coruscant and have to sit down for a class, it so happens to be that the class, taught by Master Gallia, is about sex.

Purportedly, the class is about the "more mature and advanced" implications of the Jedi Code. Knowing what you know now, however, it is laughably easy to read between the lines and understand the real lesson at hand: you are to be celibate your entire life, lest you stray from the Light Side.

It's a calculation that doesn't compute in your head. Trillions of people throughout the galaxy are having sex every single second (according to the holonet), yet you spend the majority of your days fighting clankers, a Zabrak, a larger clanker, and an old human male. 

If sex were _that_ evil, then surely, you'd be fighting all the people ceaselessly having it.  


* * *

  
Lux Bonteri flirts with you, and you may have never before been on the receiving end of such attentions (that you were aware of, anyway), but still, the whole thing is so pathetic that the only appropriate response is for you to roll your eyes at him.  


* * *

  
You are sixteen and dead.

There is a haze clouding your sight, scrambling your thoughts, hate and anger scorching a path through system, so much more Darkness than you ever could have imagined —

And then there is darkness, cold and creeping down your spine for a horrible eternity, and then —

And when you wake up, a low voice calls, "Hey, Snips."

You are sixteen and granted a second life. 

The first clings to you like dirt after a sonic shower. Aboard the still-nameless Destroyer, in your new quarters that are exactly the same as the previous ones yet entirely different, you lean against the wall and slide to the floor, wrapping your arms around your bent knees so you can hide your face. 

The room is light-proof and there is nothing turned on inside, but somehow, it is still brighter than the second before death was. Somehow, the darkness of the room chills you to the bone, and the Darkness within you whispers unintelligible things —

But you do not need to understand them. It is enough to feel them, stirring like mist in your veins, threatening to take you down again —

You are sixteen and alive, alive, _alive_ —

You are sixteen and a Jedi, a Padawan, a Commander, a snippy little one, a vod'ika —

You are sixteen and maybe you are still dead. Maybe, you think, this is just what happens after death. Maybe you are one with Force now, your body an empty carcass lying on the stone ground of a planet that doesn't exist —

You died while mind-controlled, so perhaps you are now one with the Dark Side of the Force.

The whispers call for you, sitrring and rising, burning like acid, and you are dead, alive, you don't know what you are —

Who you are, where you are —

Brightness, painfully blinding, and you wonder if it's possible to die a second time, to die _while_ you're still dead from the first time —

Your Master is here. You can see him through blurry eyes, and —

"Snips..."

And it's not entirely impossible that you can feel him so close, so _fully_. Your Master is a vergence, and he can meditate when he wants to, when it serves a purpose other than meditation itself. But he laughs when you ask him if he's visting you from another plane of existence, shakes his head and laughs again, and it's not a happy sound in the least.

You're alive, he tries to tell you, and you despair to admit that it's not a convincing argument. This is the same life you used to have, and there is no reason you should be alive again —

_Pressure_ —

Against your lips, soft yet hard, insistent —

It's a _kiss_ , but you haven't moved from your crouch —

You are sixteen and kissed for the first time, _truly_ kissed, and you might still be dead, might still be on an unknown dimension, but you can't be imagining the way your Master licks your lips open, the incomprehensible taste of his saliva as his tongue slides against yours, the shiver that racks your body when his gloved fingers brush your lek on their way to cup your jaw.

Pulling back for air makes you realize that you had closed your eyes. You can see, now, that your Master is staring at you intently, pupils too dilated for the harsh lighting of the room. 

"You're not here yet," he declares with a shake of his head. Frowning, you let him stretch out your legs. You watch as he takes off both of his gloves, undoes his belt and pulls off his tabard, his robe, his tunic.

The sight of your Master's bare chest is not new, but the _feel_ of it when he presses your hand to his sternum _is_. It's smooth skin, just a little cooler than your own, and it's the beat of his heart under your palm, one, two, three —

You have to crane your head back to meet him when you're kissed again; even kneeling, he towers over you. The kiss is _deep,_ deep and _long_ , and you have a hard time trying to follow along, so your Master slows it down, guides you through it until you've learned the steps.

Lick, suck, glide. Push together and pull apart. 

Again.

_Again_.

You part to pant for breath, and it's an opportunity to tug your tunic up and over your head. Then his mouth is hovering over yours, but instead of kissing you again, he tells you to close your eyes and feel your lips, _really_ feel them, focus on them and nothing else. So you do, and you're surprised to realize that they're tingling, that they feel... _used_ , the way your arms feel used after a spar, and it is such a strange sensation that you have to bite them just to see what happens when you let go.

Tingling for a moment, and then your Master sucks on your bottom lip and bites it, too, bites it harder than you did and then harder than that, until you're whining and the skin is splitting, and then he gives a final lick, a soft kiss when he lets go —

And starts trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, streaking saliva everywhere. But at your clavicle, the angle must become too awkward, because he climbs off your lap, sits beside you, and pulls you into his own lap instead. 

You are sixteen and probably dead, and having your nipple sucked makes you gasp and arch against your Master's mouth, makes you clamp your thighs against his thicker, more muscled ones and realize that if you rock your hips forward just a bit —

Like _that_ —

You can feel your Master's cock, and _that_ makes you — mewl. It is likely the first time you have ever made that sound, and that feels monumental for the brief moment it takes you to notice that you are, somehow, standing up, holding onto your Master's shoulders as he rolls down your tights. 

"Come back," he murmurs against your skin, and you are sixteen and maybe glad you are dead, because his mouth on your cunt is the best thing you have ever felt. Wet and a little cool, soft with the sharp edge of teeth, and the first lick is a broad thing that buckles your knees and flares deliciously up your spine. 

Knowing, on a very basic intellectual level, that this is supposed to feel good doesn't prepare you for the actual feel of it, for the way every sound you make rasps your throat on its way out or the way your Master's hands clutch at you, one on your hip and the other on the thigh over his shoulder. It doesn't prepare you for the shame of being spread open like this, and it doesn't prepare you for the _thrill_ of being ashamed _because_ of this, and —

And there is a kind of gravity working its way through your body, pulling everything towards your center and twisting it into a tight knot that grows and grows with every suck, every thrust, every lick at the dual nerve peaks above your entrance. 

It swells when you open your eyes and look down to find your Master staring at you, almost _glaring_ , and he doesn't speak, _can't_ speak, not with his tongue _inside_ you, but there's a voice commanding you to _feel_ —

The way the knot tightens one last time —

Before it loosens, opens up and _loosens_ and ignites every last nerve in your body, until you feel —

The gentle lapping of your Master's tongue on your sensitive skin, the cold air of the room, the —

The rapid beat of your heart, as fast as when you spar, when you race, when you _battle_ —

You sob because you have to, because your heart is beating and pumping blood through your veins and arteries, up to your montrals and down to your toes. You sob because your lungs expand and contract with every breath, because you're on your back and your Master is kissing a tear away and telling you it's true, it's real, it's _all_ real.

And then you whimper because the push of his cock hurts — 

Beautifully, wonderfully. It stings and makes you cant your hips, and somehow that makes it worse, but making it worse means making it _better_ —

You are sixteen when you break your vow to the Jedi Order, and you tell yourself it doesn't matter, because you are sixteen and you were dead and now —

Now, you're not. Now, your body trembles as your Master thrusts in and out, almost as fast as your heartbeat and harder than that, and now, when you rake your claws down his back and he groans, your lekku ondulate and curl in sheer bliss. 

Here, he says in between pants. Here, here, you're here, you're here with _him_ , and that feels true in a way nothing the past however many hours it's been did. It's a truth that reaches into your soul and sets fire to your bond, and it burns but you _want_ it. 

Rex told you, once, the very first time you got injured on the field, that pain means you're still alive. That's the only thing that feels important right now. It's the only thing that makes _sense_ , when your Master is sucking a bruise to your neck and his hand is clutching another to your hip, when you beg for more because you're _alive_ —

You are sixteen and alive and that feels so good you want to cry again, but instead you mewl and relish the way your breath hitches, the way your toes curl in pleasure, the too-cold floor under your sweaty back. Instead, you plant one foot, tense your core, and roll the both of you over, so that it's your Master who is on his back, damp hair sticking to his forehead.

And now you can move, really _move_. Every muscle in your body works to hold you up or rock your hips down, up, down again, slowly so you can feel every bit of your Master's cock moving in and out, slowly until you understand the motion and can build a rhythm, and then it's faster, harder, faster still, until your tits bounce and you have to ask for more, _beg_ for more —

His mouth around the tip of one lek, his nails scratching down your back, and they're not nearly as sharp as yours must have been, but somehow it's the thing that _grounds_ you —

Here, you're _here_ —

Alive and sixteen and his Padawan —

It _yanks_ you back into your own body, overheated and breathless and aching in the best possible way —

You ask him to come, _please_ come, and you can tell when he does because the Force glows and pulls you down to grind your hips, and his groan echoes in your montrals, reverberates through your lek and the bond, which is still on fire, still shaking with the weight of this reality —

You're shaking too, because your arms and thighs are tired, because your Master's fingers are rubbing circles on your peaks — _clits_ , you learned that word when you were researching —

You're on your back again, and your Master is still thrusting even though you can feel him softening. There's a jerk through your bond, not entirely comfortable, but you let it twist you inside and it's good, tightens the knot in your cunt, and it gets better when you let out a mewl.

Your Master presses a kiss to the inside of your tit, and then it turns into a _bite_ , harsh and unforgiving, and your mewl turns into a whine that goes on —

And on —

As the knot loosens and your heart beats, fast and hard and alive, so alive —

You are sixteen and two years into a war and aching and _still alive_ , and it's the best you have ever, ever felt.  


* * *

  
Getting left behind for the extraction mission to the Citadel is unacceptable. 

For one, the thought of not being there for your Master, Master Obi-Wan, and the handful of troopers chosen for the (very dangerous) mission leaves a nasty taste in your mouth.

For another, the thought of being left alone, with no catecholamine high pumping through your system, is worse than the feel of carbonite freezing you in place.  


* * *

  
You are sixteen and kidnapped to play pray for some Trandoshan scum.

Joke's on them, because you killed an akul with nothing but two daggers when you were twelve, and you have survived two years of war, and you have _died_. Less than a standard month ago, you _died_ , and your Master revived you.

You have no intention of dying a second time on this barren moon.

The final battle is, quite literally, the bloodiest you have ever been in. Be it in the form of bolts or a blade, the beauty of plasma is it cauterizes the wounds it creates. On the field, most of the blood you see comes from an array of other injuries, and that's when you see any at all. Plastoid covers a lot, and droids are droids.

But _this_ fight. You pounce and bite, drop with a sweeping kick and slit. Right hook that Rex taught you _—_

Snap this bone, that neck —

(The whispers are screams and the screams are too loud —)

Not a single Trandoshan escapes.

The whole way to Coruscant, your heart beats too fast and the whispers claw at your insides. You ignore them, focus on making conversation with Chewbacca, who regales you with anecdotes of wild adventures.

When you land, your Master is there. He takes one look at you and walks away, but there's a tug in your bond that compels you to follow, so after assuring Master Plo that you're (mostly, physically) unharmed, you make your way to your Master's quarters.

He drags you into the shower, turning the water on to scalding. It hurts a little and that's good, and so is the way you pull at each other's clothes and throw them onto tile floor, until you're both naked and there isn't as much dried blood and mud left on you.

And then it doesn't matter because you're kissing, and maybe you should have washed your mouth first, but your Master doesn't seem to care. His tongue licks at your fangs and then deeper past as his fingers trace circles over your hole —

No, you tell him. Not his fingers, so he grabs you by the hips and lifts you up until your legs wrap around him. 

You are sixteen and spread open a second time. It's impossibly good again, fast and hard again, the angle completely different, and it's hungry, _needy_ , because you're alive (and so is he) but you _could_ be dead again, could still be missing —

You're not. Your Master tells you with every thrust out and every thrust in, with every bite and every lick. And when he asks you not to leave again, not to disappear, not to die, you nod shakily and pull on his hair to make him kiss you harder.  


* * *

  
Your Master is married, apparently. Once it is out in the open, it strikes you as so very obvious that it truly is a wonder you hadn't realized before.

It all makes sense now. The kiss you saw years ago, the rejection after your own advances, the inexhaustible knowledge your Master seems to possess. The secrecy of it all.

You promise not to tell. You have no reason to, after all. It hurts a little that your Master even thought he had to _ask_ you for your trust, but you brush it off as paranoia, which is not entirely unlike him.

The full implications of his commitment don't click for you until you move forward and he steps back almost reflexively. Padmé knows, he explains, _obviously_ she knows, but this isn't supposed to happen again. It wasn't _ever_ supposed to happen. Once was a mistake, a corollary of the war. Twice is a conscious choice.

Monogamy is a choice too, you want to reply, but you don't truly understand enough about that to get into an argument, and besides, you have a vow to get back to.

(It _was_ twice, you want to say, but that doesn't seem so important anymore.)

"Later, Skyguy," you throw over your shoulder as you leave the room, and you don't ever cry about it.  


* * *

  
Lux Bonteri flirts with you again, and this time, you flirt back.  


* * *

  
The day you turn seventeen, you convince Rex to give you alcohol. He justifies (excuses) his concession with the fact that you will be stuck in hyperspace for the next eight hours, and after that, you'll land on Coruscant. No battlefields for you in the proximate future. 

You are seventeen and drunk for the first time. 

Rex and you laugh at stupid jokes and fond memories, and when Fives shows up, he joins in the fun, sharing stories of missions with other legions and training with Domino Squad way back when. Somehow, the three of you end up on the floor of Rex's room, your head on Rex's lap and Fives' on your stomach. Sometimes, Rex says, it's useful to have private quarters, even if he mostly sleeps with the rest of the boys.

It occurs to you then that they're likely not as drunk as you are, number one because they have duties and number two because they have experience drinking, but they don't stop you from taking another swig and they laugh as loudly as you do, so it doesn't matter.

One of them asks how you even ended up at Rex's door asking for alcohol, and you don't tell them you're hiding from your Master, who invited you to spar before you boarded ship. Instead, you tell them you forgot already; it makes them laugh again, and that's better than anything they could have said to the real answer.  


* * *

  
You are seventeen when you leave the Jedi Order.

It is the worst day of your life, and that is an easy enough conclusion to reach. Your Master has never pleaded with you, not for anything, but he does this time.

Somehow, it isn't enough to make you stay.  


* * *

  
Trace is one of the nicest people you have ever met. She's smart, if a little wishful, and she's funny, and, most importantly, she's kind.

But Rafa... Rafa reminds you of your Master. Stubborn, angry, loud, determined, a little entitled and whole lot arrogant. There is nothing about Rafa that isn't ruthlessly fierce, and still, she's kind underneath it all. Not like Trace, whose kindness costs her nothing. No, Rafa has to _work_ for it, and perhaps that's what makes it so easy to fall into bed with her.

Perhaps, you think to yourself, she reminds you a little _too_ much of your Master.  


* * *

  
Half a year on your own shouldn't be too much, especially considering you're _not_ on your own for most of that time, but it is.

It _is_ too much and it _is_ too painful. You hide it in between whimpers and kisses, in between almost dying (again and again) and killing someone (again and again and _again_ ), and you keep going because there is no turning back.

There is something to be said about walking in circles though. Without ever going back, you can move forward enough that you end up where you began.

You know your answer even before Bo-Katan asks her question.  


* * *

  
Your Master is blue and staticky the next time you see him. His wide-eyed stammering makes the corners of your lips twitch, but you force down the grin that wants to take over. There are more pressing matters at hand.

There still are when you and Bo-Katan board whichever Destroyer this is. You maintain distance between him and yourself and ignore the part of you that thrills at the pang of dejection that stabs through your bond.

But you can't ignore the blue of your once-green lightsabers, humming in your hands as your Master looks on with a self-satisfied expression that you desperately want to kiss off his face.

It is good, then, that you had already made up your mind, because once this is over (and it is _so close_ to being over), you won't be able to leave again.  


* * *

  
You are seventeen when Maul extends a hand to you.

Prized pupil, he says, and your insides twist in betrayal, but you bury it under outrage and fake incredulity and crouch into a ready position. It's a position your Master taught you, the first one after getting your shōtō, and everything your Master has taught you you have learned to perfection.

You are seventeen and responsible for Maul's death.

His severed head makes Bo-Katan smirk and Rex call you a good verd'ika. You convince them both of mysterious Jedi business you ought to conduct straight away, and they lend you a ship that you program for Coruscant. When you land at the Temple, there are bodies lying around all over the place: younglings, Guards, troopers of the 501st. 

None of it is much of a surprise, not with Maul's speech and not with the whispers calling for you, but you still have to breathe slowly to settle your stomach.

Your best bet, you figure, is Padmé's apartment. 

Indeed, your Master's fighter is there —

And so are your Master _and_ Padmé. They part from their embrace as your speeder approaches, and your Master pushes Padmé behind him as you park. She protests that it's only you, but you're smarter than that. You know you're supposed to be dead by now, so you throw your lightsabers on the landing platform before you get off the speeder slowly, making sure to project each of your moves.

He asks what you're doing there, and you tell him you killed Maul.

That doesn't answer his question, but you can sense a wave of pride emanating from your bond, and it warms you to the core, runs down your spine in a shiver and makes you want to mewl —

Not yet.

"I don't want to lose you again."

His chin tilts back as his nostrils flare, and it is then that you notice his irises are no longer blue. 

Very well, he concedes, and starts saying something about the Chancellor when you interrupt him with a shake of your head and a firm _no_.

You move closer, stepping over your discarded lightsabers without hesitation even though your Master's own saber ignites to the low sound of Padmé's gasp.

And when you're only a step or two away from him, you remind him. There are only ever two Siths. Never more, never fewer. A master and an apprentice.

You kneel before him —

You wait for the length of a breath, another —

You beg, a single _please_ that you can't hold back, can't keep inside you any longer, while Padmé sobs incoherently behind him —

Fingers at your chin, bare flesh, encouraging you to raise your head from its bow, and —

Your Master is smiling, and it's a soft, small thing, but he says, "You have never disappointed me," and it's the most beautiful he's ever seemed to you.

You are seventeen and apprentice to the Sith Lord Darth Vader. 

Together, you kill his last two Masters. Obi-Wan screams about brotherhood until you stab him from the back, blue plasma blade sticking out of his chest. Sidious cackles even as your Master chokes him, but then you snap his neck and he doesn't cackle anymore.

In the end, you are many things, but the only one that matters is that you are your Master's.


End file.
